The King Falls

Book 4: Bridge to Death Mystery

by R.J. Lee

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

King Kohl, scion of the Kohl and Son real-estate firm, has a reputation for loving three things: the ladies, closing on properties, and playing bridge. Still, when he invites Wendy, the president of the Rosalie, Mississippi, Country Club Bridge Bunch, to a small, exclusive bridge party, her investigative instincts as a reporter for the Rosalie Citizen are on the alert. In fact, King means to use the occasion to make a surprising announcement to his selected guests. But before he can lay his cards on the table, tragedy strikes. After receiving a mysterious message to hurry to King’s home, Wendy almost collides with the man’s real-estate rival, running out the front door insisting he found King dead when he arrived—not just dead, it turns out, but murdered, crowned with one of his own award plaques. Is the rival as guilty as he looks? Was it a crime of passion by one of Kohl’s scorned lovers? With her detective husband Ross and her father Bax Winchester, the chief of police, Wendy is determined to find the offender who dropped the unguarded King.

Release date: March 29, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

On a cool May morning in Rosalie, Mississippi, Wendy Winchester Rierson sat across from her husband, Ross, at the kitchen table, listening to the usual “turkey-gobbling noises” the back of the refrigerator was making while she shuffled through the Saturday mail. They had just enjoyed a light breakfast of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and whole wheat toast with Rosalie muscadine jelly. While Ross was entirely preoccupied with their bills—which he stubbornly refused to pay online because of a one-time computer glitch that had annoyed him to no end—she retrieved a greeting card-sized envelope from her stack and tore it open with great relish, giving out a light gasp.

“Well, he’s at it again,” she said, flashing the card at Ross, as if he could actually make it out in such a short interval of time.

“Who’s at what again?” he asked her, after she had returned it to the palm of her hand. She was always doing that to him—making him guess at the gist of things that flew out of her mouth.

“King Kohl is having another of his bridge parties,” came the reply. “This will be the third one since he joined the Bridge Bunch a couple of years ago. Plenty of booze, and a big spread for those who don’t want to play half-buzzed, and a selection of Rosalie socialites to beat the band. Of course, he’s always the center of attention.”

Ross frowned, bringing a blush to his Nordic coloring. “Of course he is. What else would you expect from the scion of the Kohl and Son real estate firm? Their FOR SALE and SOLD signs are planted all over town, and new ones seem to sprout every day on lawns just like crabgrass. To use an internet term, their business went viral a long time ago.”

“An understatement. Sometimes I think they founded Rosalie and divvied up all the original tracts the Spanish laid out way back when. Of course he’s not a bad bridge player. Except he’s always got an eagle eye for the ladies he invites. The guest list always tilts that way, it seems.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t try to hit on you,” Ross said. But his tone suggested she was not to take him seriously.

“I can handle myself,” she told him, raising her right eyebrow.

“I know you can. All of Rosalie knows you can. You’re the best investigative reporter and crime solver this town has ever had, all rolled into one.”

Wendy feigned being taken aback with a sideways glance. “You know Daddy would disagree with you, sweetheart. There are plenty of officers being paid to catch criminals that I couldn’t hold a candle to. I’m strictly an amateur who can’t help but meddle.”

Ross made a face after tearing open a bill and staring at the amount that greeted him. It seemed he had forgotten how to blink. “Hmmm. The utilities keep going up and up. It’s not like we’re abusing the thermostat. But whaddaya gonna do? Summer in the Deep South is an outdoor sauna. Anyhow, I agree that you are your daddy’s daughter. Bax Winchester is the best chief of police this town’s ever had, and I think we both know you got your crime-solving genes from him.”

Wendy brightened considerably, tossing back her shoulder-length auburn curls. “Probably.”

“No, definitely. First, you solve the murders of the Gin Girls, who were poisoned at their own bridge luncheon; then you help figure out the murder of that horrible Brent Ogle, who was clobbered in the hot tub out at the country club; then you come up with just the right angle for the murder of Aurelia Spangler, that psychic who rented Overview on the High Bluff. You’re about ready for another murder to solve, aren’t you? You don’t want your talents to run dry, do you?”

Wendy shuddered. “Don’t even say something like that, Ross. I’d like to go a decent period of time without having my love for the game of bridge connected to someone’s untimely death. Of course, I have had my share that were unrelated.”

“I was just kidding anyway.”

“But these things have a way of happening to me,” she continued. “You and Daddy do your part in these investigations, but why do all these breakthroughs seem to fall into my lap?”

Ross began writing a check for the utility bill and did not look up. “Because you are gifted, my girl. You have that puzzle-solving ability that few people have. You line things up in that beautiful brain of yours, and then something clicks. Voilà! The solution that nobody thought of. Or at least not the entire solution.” Ross finished with the check, put down his pen, and finally looked up. “So when is this bridge to-do that King Kohl has invited you to gonna take place?”

“Next Saturday.” She paused, reviewing her newspaper schedule, remembering that her editor and now her father’s second wife, Lyndell Slover, had given her the day off again. The bond between the two women had only grown stronger over the past couple of years as stepmother and daughter, and Wendy was often granted special requests regarding time off. “Remind me. Do we have anything on the calendar from your end that I’ve forgotten about?”

He glanced briefly at the ceiling as if it had the answer for him, narrowed his eyes, and told her that he didn’t think so.

“The invitation doesn’t say and guest, of course. So I’d have to go it alone if I decided to go.”

He snickered. “You can always decline.”

“I . . . know that.”

Ross cocked his head at the hesitation. “What’s wrong? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“A premonition, perhaps?”

She pursed her lips and shifted her weight slightly, leaning against the back of her wicker chair. “I just don’t know. Something just went up my spine. I can’t explain it, and you know I hate it when I get that feeling.”

Ross returned to his bills and left the matter hanging. “You could try to explain it if you really wanted to.”

“I wonder what they could have been thinking?” Wendy said at last, posing the question more to their bright, yellow, redecorated kitchen with its bell-pepper–dotted curtains than to her husband.

“I love your lack of segues, as usual. What who could have been thinking?”

“King’s parents. Who saddles a child with a name like King Kohl? I’m sure he’s been teased all his life by that nursery rhyme. Can’t you just hear his classmates now? Endlessly chanting it at recess and in the cafeteria when he sits down with his tray.”

Ross looked amused. “Ah, yes. And a merry old soul was he, right? It’s been a lifetime since I’ve thought of that nursery rhyme.”

“Actually, he does always appear to be merry enough. He’s a very handsome man—tall, with that deliberate, dark scruff that’s so popular these days, and one of those jutting chins that looks like it’s made out of rock. He does have the first signs of a receding hairline, but he obviously doesn’t let it bother him. He’s always telling jokes, mostly aimed to charm the women around him. But I found him to be a bit much. He knows he’s good-looking, and there doesn’t seem to be a modest bone in his body. He’s always on, and that’s just not for me. You are, of course.”

“By that, I’m assuming you don’t think I’m off?”

“You’re neither on nor off. You’re very secure in your masculinity. You know exactly who you are, and you have nothing to prove.”

“Thanks.” Ross frowned at another bill, shaking his head. “So, are you gonna accept the invitation to this little bridge to-do or not?”

“I’ve been thinking that it might be fun just to see what he’s up to.”

“Does he have to be up to something? Can’t he just be being himself?”

Wendy sat up straight and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Yes, he could be, I suppose.”

“Well, I didn’t mean anything by my question. Just making conversation.” After a pause, he continued. “So, are you going?”

She picked up the invitation again and studied it closely. The font was flowery and fussy, the heavy stock a shade of lavender, and it was even scented—none of that particularly masculine, in effect—something a woman might have conjured up and sent. The thought continued to occur to Wendy that she should go because King might be up to something. His bridge parties at his brick townhouse on prestigious, crepe myrtle–lined Minor Street were quite festive to date. Something kept telling her that she should attend. She would accept the invitation from King Kohl—the merry young soul.

“I’m going,” she told Ross at last.

His smile was wry and brief. “Was there ever any doubt?”

Campbell King Kohl sat at his highly polished plantation desk in his den, lost in thought. The room was too full of period furniture—antique lamps and conservative window treatments that his mother had coordinated for him—to be called a man cave, but that was its purpose, nonetheless. In fact, the entire Federal-style townhouse, flush with the sidewalk, had been decorated by her since Jackson and Ethel Kohl had bought and restored it after the business had taken off some thirty years ago; and then they had conveniently turned it over to their son a few years back and retired to the slave quarters in the backyard. They weren’t giving up much in the way of comfort and style, since the two-story, brick outbuilding had been as lavishly furnished as the main house; they were perfectly happy with the downsizing, so to speak, now that they were entering their sixties.

Kohl had been reviewing the guest list for his upcoming bridge gathering for some time now, although he knew it would turn out to be much more than that. For one thing, the list was far shorter than the ones for the other parties he had thrown. There had been three tables of players invited to those. But then, those had been genuinely devoted to bridge and lots of drinking and socializing, and everyone had left buzzed and anticipating another gathering down the road. That would not be the case this coming Saturday.

Of course, he had to have his parents there as the star guests—Jackson and Ethel Kohl. They had brought him into the world and had always had such high expectations of him. His father, Jackson, had shown him every angle of the real estate business since his college graduation from Ole Miss five years ago—including some hacks about cutting corners that weren’t exactly by the book. Nonetheless, they worked and brought in more business, and that was the point. Kohl and Son was more than just a corporation. It was a generational gift.

“I want you to start taking over more and more of the business, son,” Jackson had told him more than once. “I think maybe by the time you’re thirty, I’ll be ready to take a back seat and let you run most of the show. We’ve already given you the house. Why not give you the business, too? Besides, I’ve done most of the heavy lifting. Now it’s time for you to reap the rewards for the next generation.”

King remembered the gleam in his father’s eye every time he dredged up that sentiment. He knew how much Jackson Kohl looked up to him. Literally. What a thrill it had been for his parents when King had sprouted up past six feet as a teenager. It was the summer between his sophomore and junior years in high school, and his appetite had exploded. He ate and drank everything in sight and had been especially fond of apple juice, beef jerky, and tuna fish sandwiches made with sweet pickle. He couldn’t get enough of them all. If he knew nothing else about his father, it was that the man hated his short stature—straining at 5’4” in his best shoes with lifts. And there was that time recently when Jackson had taken King aside and given him the unwelcome revelation of a lifetime, every bit as ponderous as any he had divulged over the years at St. Mary Basilica to Father LeBlanc or another priest on the other side of the confessional.

“I never thought I’d tell anyone this, son,” he’d said. “But for some reason, I think now is the time to tell you . . . I’ve never really loved your mother the way everyone thinks I have. Everyone has always thought of us as the perfect couple. In many ways, we are. But that’s not the whole story.”

King had been unable to keep the shock out of his voice and his face. “You don’t mean that, do you, Pop? And if you do, why are you telling me now? I think I could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing this.”

“I do mean it, and I had this frightening dream the other night that time was running out.”

King looked horrified. “You’re basing this on a dream? About what?”

“I don’t know. I had the sense that it was just a matter of time before things changed drastically,” he had begun, but the pause he had taken next was significant, uncomfortably so for King. “But I can tell you about the rest of it, apart from the dream, that is. I did like your mother well enough. I just never loved her. I had an ulterior motive in marrying her, and you must never tell her I told you this. In fact, you must never tell anyone. You must take this to your grave.”

That last word found its way into King’s bloodstream, chilling it at once. “Why did you put it that way?”

“What way?”

“The mention of death. Are you trying to tell me that you’re dying? Or Mom’s dying?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just . . . a trite expression, that’s all.”

Even so, King knew the upcoming explanation would not be good news. “That’s all quite a buildup. Will you please get whatever it is over with?”

Jackson had looked down at the floor as he spoke, clearly revealing that he was less than proud. “It was because I was so short, and your mother was taller than I was by several inches. And your uncle Murl was over six feet before he started shrinking there at the end. I admired him so. He looked down on nobody. That’s why.”

“Would you care to elaborate, or are you gonna just leave it at that? Uncle Murl was one toxic male specimen, I have to say. A couple of rape charges that got dismissed, as I recall, and I’m willing to bet that he never set foot in church after his first communion.”

“Okay, so he wasn’t a saint. Who is? The thing is, I wanted tall children, taller than I was, at least. Specifically, I wanted a tall son, tall as your uncle Murl. And . . . and here you are. I got my genetic wish.”

King could find no words.

“I’m so proud you’re tall,” Jackson had continued. “You’ve never had to put up with what I’ve had to in my life. They smirk and call it the ‘small man syndrome.’ I’d have to say it’s real, based on my experience, but it’s a battle you’ve never had to fight. To have more women taller than you are is something you don’t want on your plate, believe me.”

King found the comment even more unsettling than the one about his mother. “I hope you’re proud of more than my height, Pop. That’s kind of a backhanded compliment, if you think about it. I may have started out like Uncle Murl, but . . .”

“Wait . . . whaddaya mean, you started out like Uncle Murl? Is there something you haven’t told me, son?”

King shrugged but also looked uncomfortable. “I just meant my attitude toward women, that’s all. I think it’s not what it should be.”

Jackson had blanched. “Please tell me you aren’t gay. Not after all the girlfriends you’ve had. You can’t be.”

“Hell, no, Pop. That’s not what I meant at all.”

Jackson had gone on to tell him that of course he was proud of him, but it had stuck with King all this time that perhaps his father didn’t really see who he was; that his presumption was that all his son wanted was to continue being a part of the business. A tall part of the business. It had seemed so superficial—without any true depth of feeling. It was all a matter of inches. Was that the extent of the relationship between father and son? If so, what loyalty did he really owe to the man?

And then there was that dream his father had detailed. King had read up on dreams afterward, even though he knew from his catechism that the church did not exactly endorse such a diversion as gospel. The book he’d skimmed insisted that information could sometimes be imparted in dreams that could be obtained nowhere else—including waking life. If that were true, then that description of “time running out” truly disturbed him. How could his father know anything? Was this just a random thing? How could anyone know, other than Father LeBlanc?

King snapped out of that particular reverie and thought about his mother for a moment. How would Ethel Mayes Kohl handle such a revelation about why his father had married her, assuming she ever found out? He knew he would never tell her such a cruel and calculating thing. Nonetheless, she was a formidable woman, and she had never been concerned about the business. Instead, her mantra was family, family, family. More than ever lately, she had been pressing him about getting married and giving her grandchildren before she got too old to pick them up and play peekaboo without too much of an effort. She had even told King that she had some names picked out for them when they came. That had been an annoying revelation for him, to say the least. He hadn’t even begun to think about such a thing as baby names. That not only wasn’t on his plate, but the plates weren’t even in the cupboard.

“King, honey,” she had begun in that smoker’s voice of hers that had long ago become her trademark in the days before she had quit, “I want you to keep these family hand-me-downs in mind when you and your wife get pregnant. I fully expect grandchildren to spoil.” They were both sitting on the wicker sofa on the back screen porch underneath the whirring of the creaky old ceiling fan that they’d been meaning to replace for years. They certainly had the wealth and wherewithal to do it, but for some reason just hadn’t. With great wealth sometimes came great inertia, and wealthy people could get away with this and that being run-down or out of order for a while. They were just termed quirky and given a jet runway’s worth of the benefit of the doubt by their peers.

Caught off-guard, King had said, “But I’m not even married yet. And what do you mean—hand-me-downs? Are you talking about clothes? I can buy my own clothes, Mom. I stopped letting you dress me back in high school, if you recall.”

The remark seemed to wound Ethel, and before continuing, she had taken another sip of her mimosa that she was never without past noon in hot weather. “Heavens, no. Forget about clothes. I mean handing down our family names. Now, if you should happen to have a girl first, I think Lorien would be nice. That was your great-grandmother’s name, and no one has ever bothered to honor her. We can’t let her slip between the cracks, can we?”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Lorien sounds like a sports car, Mom. We might as well be calling her Jaguar.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s perfectly respectable.” There had been a pause in between further savoring of the mimosa. “And then, if you should have a boy, I favor Belfast.”

King was unable to restrain himself. “You’re kidding? A kid having to live with that all his life? Wasn’t that the name of one of Rosalie’s mansions that got burned down during the Civil War? Didn’t a Union officer blow it up on the High Bluff because he wasn’t invited to one of those elaborate soirées the planters were always giving to keep the Union brass happy and at bay?”

“No, you’re thinking of Belforest. That was the Forest family. They say Franklin Forest committed suicide after that because he just couldn’t take the loss of his magnificent mansion. Just up and cut his wrists and bled out all over the Belter parlor love seat. They had to throw it out because of all the bloodstains that just wouldn’t come out, no matter what they did. Of course, I suppose an upholsterer could only do so much back in those days. Now try to keep up.”

That was another thing. How ironic that Ethel had told him to “try to keep up.” It was she who seemed to be slow on the uptake these days, asking people to repeat things all the time. King had even suggested she have her hearing tested, but she would have none of it. Just the mention that she might be hard of hearing sent her into what Southerners referred to as a hissy fit. Still, something about her seemed to have changed and wasn’t quite right.

Matters had gone even further downhill during their baby names discussion, and King had not bothered to try and retain the succession of inappropriate monikers his mother had trotted out in dizzying and ditzy fashion. He only knew that she continued to press him these days about the women he had been dating—particularly, the two he had seen the most of since college had ended five years ago—Bella Compton and Patrice Leyton.

King returned to his bridge party guest list, smiling at the next name he was viewing.

Ah, Bella! Short for Isabella, which he always thought had a medieval flair to it. Or was he thinking of Queen Isabella of Spain, ordering the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María to set sail for the New World? He had invited her up to his college graduation, and that’s where they had first done it—at the Holiday Inn, instead of on campus. Few could afford the price of their rooms, but King had paid for their best suite and ordered up room service to gild the lily. It had all seemed so adult to the both of them, giving them a feeling of smugness and superiority. Champagne, smoked salmon, and sex. Could anything be more illusion-building?

After that, they continued seeing each other in Rosalie and became identified as a couple socially. Ethel and Jackson were beside themselves in anticipation of a wedding, which would genetically bring together the wealthy Kohl and Compton families in perfect union. And what a looker Bella was: nearly as tall as he was, but blond where he was dark; freckled across the bridge of her nose and prone to sunburn, she had the sort of smile that suggested she should be modeling toothpaste or moisturizer out in California. Plus, Jackson never tired of pulling his son aside about the important matter of proposing.

“I’m tired a’ asking this. When are you two gonna tie the knot?” he had said during their most recent discussion. “Your children are sure to be tall, you know.”

But King had thrown cold water on his father’s enthusiasm with no qualms, having not fully recovered from the revelation about his mother’s family’s tall genes in that previous confrontation. “On the other hand, Pop, we could have a throwback. After all, you’re short, so the odds favored me not being as tall as I am. Genetics are a crapshoot, and then there’s always that ‘skipping a generation’ thing. That’s not out of the realm of possibilities.”

Jackson scowled, stopping short of wagging a finger. “Why in hell would you wanna go there, son? Are you just trying to annoy me?”

King just let it lie there. He disdained a serious discussion on the subject of settling down. Besides, Bella Compton was willing to wait, anyway. Forever, if she needed to, as she had told him before their falling out, and that had been fine with him. “I want to be with you ’til death do us part,” were her exact words.

King pulled out of his contemplation. Death. Time running out. Was it all as si. . .